The Soviet Comeback by Jamie Smith (best ereader for academics TXT) 📕

hidden ballistic knife. Without looking to aim, he rolled and pushed the clasp, throwing his hand out in Brishnov’s direction.

The giggle died upon Brishnov’s lips. The blade protruded from his belly, and he stared down at it with shock.

“NO!” he cried in anguish.

“Upon us all, Taras,” Nikita said, standing over him and kicking away the Desert Eagle which had fallen from his hand. “We all must die. There is no place for the White Russian in the new world.” Then, before turning away he added, “I think the new world will be a better world.”

Brishnov’s face contracted with pain and fury as he fell forwards into the snow drift.

He turned and saw that his father was standing over Veselovsky, whose face was a bloody pulp on the ground.

Nikita exhaled, feeling his muscles relax, and then the pain seared through his body from his wounds and he fell to one knee.

His father walked over to him and helped him up. “On your feet, my son.” His eyes crinkled and filled with tears. “My child, I am so sorry that this is the life you have had to lead,” he said and pulled him into a hug.

Nikita let himself get lost in his father’s arms and felt tears of overwhelming grief flood from his eyes. His body shook; he felt like a child in an old man’s body.

“I am sorry, Father, I promised to protect us all. They have taken Mother,” he said as a fresh wave of tears broke through him. “They have killed the Chairman,” he said with fresh grief, one that he could not understand.

“Your mother was so proud of you, Nikita. We are all so proud. I have no love for the Chairman, but look what he was prepared to give for you. You a black man, earning the love and respect of white Russians. Despite everything you have endured, you have the most beautiful of souls.” Then he moaned loudly, his huge shoulder heaving as the sobs wracked through him. “My Sophie is gone. I cannot believe she’s gone. She cannot have gone, she is the love of my life,” he cried, as huge tears rolled down his gentle face.

Nikita attempted to close his eyes, but his torn eyelid rendered that impossible. He teetered, his consciousness beginning to slip. He could hear the sound of engines in the distance. Too little, too late.

Suddenly he heard movement behind them and saw that Veselovsky had regained consciousness and was running as fast as he was able up the path, his face puffy and mangled, but apparently still functioning.

Gabriel roared and went to give chase but Nikita grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Let him go, Father; I can hear the backup coming. He will not get far and we do not have the strength to chase.”

His father nodded reluctantly. “A life spent trying to be a hero is a lonely life; it is time to look after yourself now. You have saved Milena. Let me help you inside. You are bleeding too much,” he said and lifted Nikita with ease, carrying him back towards the house. Nikita could feel unconsciousness falling upon him. His father put him on his feet at the front door. As Nikita landed unsteadily, the valley rippled with the crack of a distant gunshot.

He snapped around to see his father wide eyed and mouth open.

“FATHER!” Nikita cried, trying to stay upright as the world swayed.

Gabriel held out his hand. “My boy…” he whispered before his eyes closed and he fell backwards.

“No, please, no, no, no,” Nikita cried, tears leaking through his torn eyelid and mingling with the blood smeared across his face.

The last thing he saw before the blood loss overcame him was Lev Veselovsky, the leader of the Soviet neo-Nazis, standing on the hilltop, holding the same sniper that had killed his mother, looking down on him with hatred burning through his face. Then all went black.

CHAPTER 30

The regular bleeps coming from a machine, were the first thing Nikita was aware of, and the hum of distant activity. He tried to ignore it, enjoying the sleepy comfort. He had been having a good dream, one of gentle summer breezes and wholesome food on Skyros, one with Elysia’s gentle kisses of Elysia.

He heard the sound of someone clearing their throat nearby and reluctantly his eyes fluttered open. Or one eye. The other didn’t seem to be allowed to move. The open eye was immediately stung by bright strip lighting above him, and gloomy daylight streaming in through the open curtains to his left.

The bleeping came from a machine connected to him through various wires and tubes, and the clearing of the throat came from his old tutor, Maxim Denisov.

Denisov was sitting cross-legged, with his hair carefully combed into a side parting, his flat mouth nestled into its resting position of faint contempt.

“Welcome back, Agent Allochka. You are at a top-secret military facility on Bolshevik Island in the Kara Sea. The day is December 25, 1987. Merry Christmas.”

Suddenly the pain caught up with Nikita and racked through his body. His head burned, and his shoulder was completely numb. Then the rest came back to him.

“My father!” he croaked, trying to push himself up.

Denisov pushed him back down. “You must rest, Agent Allochka. Your father is in surgery.”

“He is alive?” Nikita gasped hoarsely.

“For the moment, yes,” Denisov said calmly. “He is fighting hard to survive.”

“And will he?”

“I am not a doctor. They do not give him good odds. But take solace in the fact that as it stands, he still draws breath.”

Nikita breathed a huge sigh. “And Milena?”

“She is waiting to see you. First we must speak.”

“Sir, Chairman Klitchkov is…”

“He is dead.”

“He died saving me,” Nikita said, choked up.

“Then he died the hero’s death that he deserved,”